“I say it to your face, sir,” he said thickly, “that you play a foolish—and a dangerous game.”
William of Orange rose and came round to the other side of the bureau, where he leaned and looked at the Master of Stair.
“Whatever game I play,” he said, “it is not that of being your puppet, Sir John. I ’ave my own motive’—if you cannot understan’ them—very will—it make’ no difference.”
His green eyes narrowed a little as he watched the furious face opposite; he picked up the riding-whip from the table and flicked it gently to and fro across his high boots.
“I think I am the master,” he said, and his tone brought the hot blood into Sir John’s face.
“You are the King,” he answered in a constrained voice. “But I am not one of those who believe, sir, that the King can do no wrong.”
“No,” said William quietly, “you think the King can be pull’ by strings—per’aps if you ’ave a Stuart or a Bourbon—but I—I ’ave rule’ before I am King—I do not need your title. I am Nassau. I will not be question’—you understan’?”
Sir John put his hand to his cravat and dragged at it; he was face to face with a character that he could not understand, and a spirit every whit as masterful as his own. Rage at his own inferior position, the fret of the lost chance of glorification, the bitterness of being overruled, put him into a passion that flushed his face and made his voice shake.
“Sir—if your generosity to your friends equaled the generosity you show your enemies, I should have had at least some thanks for my service—you are as ungrateful, sire, as you—”
Abruptly the King interrupted: